Tuavituk, the Angakok, it was decided, must do some conjuring. He must get into immediate communication with Torngak and learn the spirit's wishes and demands and what must be done to dispel the evil charm that Chealuk had worked by her thoughtlessness. Tauvituk was quite willing—indeed anxious—to do this, but he demanded to be well paid for it, and every man had to contribute some valuable pelt or article of clothing.
When all preparations for the seance had been made the Angakok's head was covered and in a few moments he began to utter untelligible exclamations, which were shortly punctuated by shouts and screams and ravings. He fell to the floor and seemed stricken with a fit, and Bob thought the man had gone stark mad. He struck out and grasped those within his reach, and they were glad to escape from his iron clutch. For several minutes this wild frenzy lasted before he said an intelligible word.
"The deer! The deer! The deer's sinew! Chealuk! Chealuk! Chealuk! Torngak! The evil spirit is in Chealuk! She must go! Must go! Send Chealuk away! Send her away! Send her away! Send her away!"
Finally from sheer exhaustion he quieted down and came out of his trance. He probably thought that he had given them their value's worth and what they had wanted, and that they should be satisfied.
It was now decreed that, this being the direct command of Torngak, Chealuk must be expelled from the camp. Some even asserted that she should be killed, but the majority decided that as Torngak had said merely that "Chealuk must go" that meant only that she must be sent away. If this did not prove sufficient to counteract their ill luck, why she could, after a reasonable time, be sought out and dispatched, if she had not in the meantime perished.
The feeble old woman heard it all with outward stoic indifference. It was a part of her religion and she probably thought the punishment quite just, and whatever shrinking of spirit she felt, she hid it heroically from the others. To have been killed immediately would have been more humane than banishment, for the latter only meant a slower but just as sure a death, from exposure and starvation.
To Bob, who had listened intently and was able to grasp the situation in a general way, it seemed heartless in the extreme; but his protests would not only have been powerless to move the Eskimos from their purpose, but in all probability would have worked harm for himself and to no avail. These people that at first had seemed so amiable and hospitable, and almost childlike in their nature, had been by their heathen superstitions suddenly transformed into cruel, unsympathetic savages.
"Oh," thought Bob, "if I had but heeded Sishetakushin's warning!"
But it was too late now to repent of the course he had taken and he had only to abide by it. It seemed to him that his own life hung by a mere thread and that at any moment some fancy might strike them to sacrifice him too. He had indeed but barely escaped Chealuk's fate, and the next time he might not be so fortunate.
In this disturbed state of mind he withdrew from the igloos and climbed the hill, where he stood and gazed longingly at the mainland hills to the southward, wondering where, beyond those cold, white ranges, lay Wolf Bight and his little cabin home, warm and clean and tidy, and whether his mother and father and Emily thought him safe or had heard of his disappearance and were mourning him as dead. And here he was far, far away in the north and hopelessly—apparently—stranded upon a desolate island from which he would probably never escape and never see them again.